Stuck on You
by guichee
Summary: Simon's magic has once again gone stunningly, collossally, terribly awry. He and Baz are forced to deal with the consequences in MUCH closer proximity than either of them can handle. (Cross-posted from AO3)
1. chapter 1

BAZ

My hand shakes slightly as I gently place the final piece on top of the scale model of Watford. I hold it firmly in place to set the glue, then slowly withdraw my hand. The piece doesn't move. I heave a great sigh, grinning in relief. This Magickal History term project has taken me all weekend, holed up in my turret room arranging complicated pieces for hours, only pausing briefly to eat and sleep. I've been pressed for time—I only had this bedroom to myself for two days. I felt like I had to make the most of this time where I could focus, uninterrupted by Simon and his impossible-to-ignore, overwhelming presence.

Simon had left on Friday night with Wellbelove and her parents. From what I gathered, they were off to some Equestrian competition in Kent. Simon is due back late Sunday evening, which means I still have a good few hours before he's meant to be home. I think I'll just stretch out on my bed and take a short nap without his stupid snuffling snores and small sleep-hums and stupid toned shoulders and bare chest peeking out from under his school-issued bedcovers. The man never sleeps with a sodding shirt on, not when it's even marginally warm outside.

I scowl darkly. Why does he always manage to invade my thoughts, even while he's miles away? Simon and his stupid golden curls…his jutting chin…that mole just beside his left eye that disappears in the crinkles when he smiles. His obnoxious laugh.

I shake myself. He's not even here, Basilton.

A nap, for perhaps an hour, and then I can be long gone, hunting in peace in the Wavering Wood long before Simon returns. I'm not super thirsty yet, though I know I'll definitely need to hunt within the next day or so. Now would be as good a time as any, especially without the threat of Simon following me with his too-perceptive gaze, if not his whole self. He hasn't actually followed me down to the catacombs or out to the Wood in a while, but I can never be too cautious around him. I've learned it can never hurt to be fully fueled, especially after so long being away from Simon. I need all the strength I can get when he comes back, practically bubbling over with euphoria from his weekend away with his girlfriend. I grimace—I just know he's going to be insufferable. The prat.

I stretch enormously and head into the bathroom, leaving my model in the middle of the floor. Such a luxury, knowing nobody can disturb it while I'm not keeping my eye on it. I go about my business in the bathroom, humming softly to myself.

As I flush the toilet, I hear the all-too-familiar sound of thundering footsteps from the hallway outside our room. My stomach sinks in dread. Snow is back a full three hours early.

I turn quickly from the sink, but it's too late. I hear the door to our room swing open, followed by a sickening crunch and a colourful string of swears. No, no, no—the idiot just stepped on my model of Watford! Why did I wait to move it to the top of the wardrobe? Cursing myself, but mostly him for being such a blundering fool, I yank open the bathroom door.

Snow is crouching on the floor beside my model. He has a piece of the Cloisters in his hand, hovering over the model as though he's going to try and stick it back on. I can already smell smoke, feel the blistering charge in the air that means he's gearing up to use his magic. I lunge forward and take hold of his wrist before I realize what I'm doing.

"NO, SNOW!" I bellow, but again, I'm too late. He's already casting some asinine spell.

"I'm gonna stick like glue!" I feel the white-hot burst as the magic explodes from him, wild and uncontrolled.

He lets go of the small piece, and it topples to the floor, decidedly unstuck to the rest of the model. I can't help but roll my eyes. The fool can never manage the simplest of spells. Why does he even bother with magic?

"You plonker!" I hiss. "That took me hours, and you've gone and ruined it." My hand is still clasped tightly around his wrist. I resist the urge to yank his arm out of its socket.

"Sorry Baz, it was a mistake!" he says hastily. "Where's the glue, I'll fix--"

"No you bloody well won't fix it! Get your grubby paws off my homework," I growl.

"Get your clammy hands off me!" he retorts angrily, trying to tug his arm out of my grasp.

I attempt to let go, but my hand will not unclasp. It's stuck firmly around Snow's wrist in a vice-like grip. We struggle for a second, but it's useless. My hand will not come away from his arm.

We make eye contact, horrifying realization dawning at the same moment. Snow's spellcasting has once again gone stunningly, colossally, terribly awry.

SIMON

Baz's hand is stuck to my arm. Like really, truly, actually stuck. The massive idiot has gone and intercepted my spell, and it misfired in the worst possible way. His hand. Will not. Come off. I begin to panic slightly.

"Get off me!" I give an almighty tug, but Baz's hand refuses to budge. He must be having me on—playing a sick joke.

"I can't," he says, his jaw set in a hard line.

"What do you mean you can't!? Just—let go of me!" I shout, struggling in his tight grip.

"Are you deaf? I. Can't," Baz grits out through clenched teeth. "Your magic skills are truly appalling. Aleister Crowley, Snow! Look what you've done!"

"Look what I've done?! Baz, I was just trying to fix your stupid sculpture! Why'd you have to go and leave it in the middle of the floor, anyway? Right there, blocking my path! Stupid place to keep the thing."

"I was just about to move it. Why can you never simply look where you're going? I swear, you are the least coordinated human I've ever met." He attempts to yank his hand away again, with little result. "Undo the spell, Snow," he snaps.

"Undo—but I—"

"You heard me. Undo. The bloody spell."

"Right." I stare at his pale, veiny hand and concentrate hard. "Don't touch me," I cast.

I feel a slight tingle in my wrist where Baz's palm rests. It fizzles quickly. His hand doesn't move.

"Hands off!"

Nothing. Baz's grip is beginning to cut off my circulation.

"Get away from me!"

I glance up, and Baz shakes his head in disgust. "Try again," he says tersely.

"Can't touch this!" I attempt.

Nothing happens.

"Right. Okay. Let's try something more general. As you were." That spell has never worked quite right for me. Penny has always been better at that sort of thing. As expected, it's wildly ineffective. Several more useless attempts later, Baz's hand is still thoroughly stuck. I look up to see his eyes blazing with barely concealed rage.

"I can't believe your incompetence, Snow. You've truly outdone yourself this time."

"I know," I say miserably.

"This is brilliant. Just what I needed," Baz mutters sarcastically. "Just as I was getting used to having the room to myself. Crowley, Snow, you really are a colossal idiot. What if this is permanent?"

I recoil at the idea. "Ugh—this isn't permanent! It can't be! Look, I'm pants at as-you-were, Baz. You try."

He rolls his eyes. "Give me my wand, Snow."

I hand it over.

He attempts a simple as you were and a back to square one. I can't help but feel slightly vindicated when he is even less successful than I was. But mostly, I feel panicked. What if I really am stuck with my mortal enemy forever? I won't last the week. He'll probably wind up strangling me or slitting my throat or draining me dry by day three.

Baz lets out a yell of frustration. "Augh! I can't cope with this, Snow. You…in my personal bubble…every moment! As if sharing a room wasn't bad enough!"

"I'm not too chuffed about this either! How are we supposed to even do anything like this? Imagine trying to eat together—or shower—or…anything!"

Baz swears. "What a disaster."

"Could be worse!"

"Can't imagine how. Come on Snow. Think! You got us into this mess! Fix it!"

"Er…We could go to Penny," I venture. "Penny's good at fixing my magic. She'll know what to do." I force confidence into my tone.

Baz looks at me askance. "Make Bunce fix it. That's your best idea."

I shrug helplessly.

"Okay, Snow, whatever you say. Let's go find Bunce. I hope she knows what to do, because I am at my wit's end here."

Baz drags me violently by the wrist out of Mummer's House and across the grounds towards Penny's dorm. We get several strange looks as we barrel past, me stumbling slightly as I try to keep pace with Baz's longer stride. We finally spot Penny just as she is heading out the door on her way to dinner.

"Bunce!" Baz calls sharply.

"Oh hello, Pitch," says Penny warily. "And—oh, hi Simon! I thought you weren't meant to be back til later."

She looks slightly nonplussed as her gaze darts back and forth between us. Her eyes finally settle on our joined arms. She takes in Baz's murderous expression, my sheepish grimace, his constricting grip on my wrist.

"Oh dear, this can't be good," she says. "What have you done this time, Simon?"

"Oi! This is not my fault!" I protest. I'm offended that she's jumped to (accurate) conclusions so quickly.

Baz's hand tightens painfully around my wrist.

"Well. Not my fault entirely," I amend.

"Of course it's his fault. Snow should never have been trusted with a wand. He's gone and cast a permanent sticking spell on us!" He gestures our joined arms at Penny emphatically.

"Oh, Merlin. This does not sound promising at all. Simon…how did this even happen?"

"I was trying to fix his stupid sculpture that he left directly in front of the door where anyone would have tripped over it—"

"Anyone with their head screwed on backward!"

"Shut up, Baz. It was in my way!"

"Not if you'd just looked where you were going!"

"How was I supposed to know to watch out for a mahoosive—thing--in the middle of my bedroom!"

"Quit biting each other's heads off, the both of you! It's like talking to toddlers!" Penny complains.

"Well I accidentally broke off a piece of his horrible model thing, so I tried to stick it back on but I couldn't find any glue, and Baz was about to come back, so I just—"

"Whipped out with the first spell that came into your head like a complete tosser," Baz butts in.

"Well clearly it would've worked, if you hadn't gone and stuck your hand in the middle of—"

"Why couldn't you have just waited—"

"The spell would have worked, I'm not—"

"What spell, Simon?" Penny interrupts.

"I used 'stuck like glue,' you know, from that Elvis song."

Penny groans. "Simon, you didn't! Elvis, really? What have we discussed about using song lyrics with your magic?"

"I thought this one was pretty straightforward, Pen. What could go wrong?"

"This, evidently!" Baz raises my arm forcefully.

"Well, yes, I see that now."

"You've got to really consider the whole song, Simon. All the lyrics," Penny admonishes.

I quickly run the song over in my head, but all that comes to mind is the chorus. "Oh yeah, Uh-uh-uh / I'm gonna stick like glue / Stick, because I'm / Stuck on you!"

"I guess I see where that could be a problem," I say hesitantly. (I don't see at all.)

"Bunce, I don't care what irresponsible spell he used in the first place. Can you just sort us out?"

Penny laughs. "Sort you out, just like that. I don't know, Pitch. Maybe we should leave you like this. Give you a chance to work out your differences, once and for all. I could use a break from Simon's moaning about you."

"Come on, Penny," I plead, "He's going to kill me if you leave us like this. He's evil!"

Baz sneers. "I might be evil, Snow. But I'm not ready for the rest of the world to know it yet."

I shoot Penny a desperate look. "Can you separate us, Pen?"

She sighs.

"Please, Bunce."

"I can try. But Simon's magic is tricky, you know. No promises." She grabs Baz's hand over my wrist. "This may sting a bit," she warns.

We brace ourselves.

"Make it a clean break!"

I feel a mild prickling sensation. Baz's fingers loosen slightly from their vice-like grip. I feel hope rise in me like a balloon.

Baz tugs his hand away, but it's still very firmly attached.

"Bollocks," I curse.

Penny casts several more increasingly creative spells with limited results. In the end, she manages to make it just possible for Baz to raise one finger at a time about a centimeter from my arm. This is a tiny improvement from before. Baz's bruising grip was becoming painful. But he still can't release his whole hand at once. It's like my arm is a very strong electro-magnet and his hand is steel that simply can't muster the force to escape the attraction.

"Sorry, boys," Penny says. "Looks like you're just going to have to live like this until we can find a spell to get it sorted."

Baz's murderous expression reflects how I feel.

"Maybe you should go see the Mage?" Penny suggests without much hope.

"NO," Baz and I say at once. I know he hates the Mage at the best of times. As for me, it's out of the question. The Mage doesn't need to know how badly I've bungled things up. Again. He already thinks I'm a blundering fool and a disappointment. No need to let him down even more. So that's definitely out.

"Okay then," says Penny. "We'll do some research. I'll write my parents, see if they have any ideas. In the meantime, just…try not to kill each other."

"No promises," mutters Baz. I scowl. This is going to be a very long week.


	2. Chapter 2

**SIMON**

Without speaking, Baz and I follow Penny toward the main hall. It's dinner time, and I'm starving. I was meant to eat supper with the Wellbeloves at some fancy restaurant in town. I was looking forward to some really nice, posh food. Agatha's parents said they'd pay. But our outing…well. It didn't end as planned. I frown, trying not to think about how Agatha and I left things. I'd never seen her this upset before, and I'm still not sure what I've done that has her so bothered. I'm sure we'll sort it out, though. We always have, in the past.

But right now, as far as I'm concerned, this quarrel with Agatha isn't my most pressing issue. Obviously, Baz's heavy, cold grip on my wrist is fighting for most of my attention at the minute. But I can't think about that too hard right now. I'll go into a full blown panic. Also, I'm hungry. (I'm always hungry.) And food is always a nice distraction.

I'm still mourning the loss of a nice dinner out with the Wellbeloves. But if I'm honest, Watford's food is probably even nicer, especially their Sunday roast. My mouth is watering at the thought of the soft potatoes and tender meat and the Yorkshire puddings drenched in gravy. Hot food does a lot to make any awful thing seem less horrible.

I start to walk faster toward the dining hall in anticipation. Baz falls a little behind and I tug his arm a bit, urging him to keep up. As we near the doors, Baz abruptly turns instead toward Mummer's house, nearly yanking my arm out of its socket. We jerk to a halt.

"Oi! Where d'you think you're going?!" I protest.

"Back to our room. We're not going in there right now," Baz says as though this should have been obvious.

"Why the hell not? I'm starved, Baz!"

Penny gets bored of our bickering and walks inside. I stare after her longingly.

"All of Watford is in there now, Snow. We'll never hear the end of this." He glances at our hands.

"So what? I'm hungry. They'll see us soon enough anyway."

Baz sneers. "Is food the only thing you can ever think of? We'll get some from the kitchens later. Cook Pritchard loves me. Now come on, Snow." He moves again in the direction of our room.

"No," I insist. "I'm hungry now. There's roast beef in there right this minute. What's your problem?"

"I'm not going in there like this, practically holding your hand. It's humiliating," Baz says.

"You're not holding my hand, you're holding my arm."

"Technicality."

"What, d'you think they'll all assume we're gay or something?"

He looks away. (Is he hiding a blush?) "I just want to go back to our room, Snow."

"But I need food!" My voice is almost a whine.

"Later!"

"Now, Baz! It'll only take a minute." I can smell the gravy wafting out the doors.

"You are impossible."

We glare at each other. It's clear one of us has to back down. It won't be me. Why is he being so weird about this? It's just dinner, for Merlin's sake. He's keeping me from basic life-giving necessities. Maybe it's his version of twisted payback for the mess I got us in.

After a very tense minute in which neither of us budges, Penny pokes her head out the door. "You coming? They've got that nice stuffing you like, Simon," she says.

My stomach growls loudly. I frown at Baz.

"Fine," he huffs, "But we're not staying long."

Victory! I hold back a wide grin as we make our way into the hall.

Dinner is more uncomfortable than I anticipated. It's a struggle negotiating our motions as we try to get food on our plates. I manage to knock over the gravy boat and my water glass with Baz's arm as I reach across the table. And we do get several odd stares and a few irritating questions from other students. Baz is quick to answer, "Snow just bolloxed up another spell. You know, the usual." or simply, "None of your business." People soon get the message and leave us alone. I shovel in food as quickly as possible.

It's awkward trying to cut my meat and potatoes with his arm restricting my movement. But even with my struggles, it's clear that I'm the one who has it easy. With his right hand locked around my wrist, Baz only has one usable hand. He can't cut his food or eat properly. I don't think he manages to eat much. He quickly gives up and just sits, knee bouncing impatiently under the table like he's trying to start an earthquake.

On a regular Sunday, I'd probably stay and eat at least third helpings of everything. But now, Baz shoots me a menacing look as I reach for seconds. I get the message and hastily grab a couple dinner rolls for the road.

We head back up to Mummer's House without saying much. As soon as we're back, I sink into my desk chair and heave a great sigh. I catch a whiff of my own clothes and cringe. I still smell like I've just rolled around in a horse stable. (This isn't far from the truth. Yeah, I know. It's a long story.) I was planning to jump in the shower as soon as I got back from Agatha's riding competition, but then this whole…sticky situation sort of distracted me. And now a shower is going to be seven shades of awkward with Baz literally attached to my arm. I can only hope he doesn't notice. Maybe I can put off showering until we get this sorted. But Baz has a wicked good sense of smell.

Baz stands awkwardly above me for a moment. I can see his nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath, preparing to speak. But then his nose wrinkles in disgust. Predictably.

"Crowley, Snow! What is that stench?"

"Er…me, I think," I say sheepishly. "I, ah, fell in the dirt at Agatha's horse race."

(Actually, she sort of pushed me. I don't think she meant for me to fall and land in a pile of manure. But she didn't seem too sorry about it. In her defense, I suppose I was being a bit of an arse. But it's not my fault that horse tricks just aren't very interesting. I don't know why she cares so much about riding. But clearly it means a lot to her, because I've never seen her so bent out of shape.)

"Merlin and Morgana, you reek!" Baz complains.

"I did strongclean as a whistle/strong but…I don't think it worked."

"Obviously." Baz flings an elbow over his nose. Drama queen. I don't smell emthat/em awful. (If you like hanging around in barnyards.)

I'm a little out of options here. It's either sit around smelling like the back end of a horse, or face the weirdest shower of my life with Baz attached to me like a parasite. I scowl. "Right, well, I'll just pop in the shower then. Care to join me?"

I might be imagining things, but Baz's cheeks turn a pale shade of pink. "Don't be daft, Snow. I'm not getting in with you. I'll just…er, stand outside the curtain."

"You're damn right," I say. (Why didn't I think of that? Now I can feel the color rising in my own cheeks.)

 **BASILTON**

It's not as if I've never seen Snow naked before. It happened once in our third year, for about half a second. He slammed the door in my face. I couldn't get the image out of my head for weeks afterwards. (It still came to mind in my weakest moments.) Part of me is having an internal dance party at the thought of Simon showering just inches from me. But most of me knows that this is the very last thing I need right now. It's pure torture, having Simon this close to me without really being emclose./em But he really does smell dreadful. I sigh, resigning myself to the inevitable.

We walk together into the en-suite. Simon runs the tap, adjusting the finicky temperature until steam begins to fill the small room. I hold my breath as he begins to unbutton his shirt, exposing his (unreasonably toned) chest and abs. emRelax, Basilton,/em I tell myself sharply. I've seen Simon shirtless loads of times. This is nothing new. If nothing else, I'll have some great new material for my perverse daydreams. I deserve that, right? With all Simon is putting me through?

He eases the sleeves down his arms, exposing freckled shoulders and a back covered in moles. My mouth begins to water unbidden. But suddenly, Simon comes to a halt. The problem is immediately clear. His left sleeve stops abruptly where my hand meets his wrist. He can't get his shirt off completely—the sleeve would just travel up my arm with nowhere to go. I curse. This presents some pretty huge logistical problems. If he can't get his old, filthy shirt off, there's no way he'll be putting on a clean one tomorrow. And there's no way for me to get my jumper off, either. Wonderful.

Simon swears. "This just keeps getting better and better."

I sneer. "And whose fault is that?"

We quickly discover that we can't do much, short of literally cutting the shirt off his body. We fumble around with the sleeve for a good minute, managing to work it up over my grip on his wrist so the sleeve is now mostly on my arm. I hold onto the shirt as Simon fumbles with the button of his trousers. I can feel my weak, traitorous body starting to react as my hand inadvertently brushes against his boxers. I turn my head away, clenching my teeth and willing myself to remain in control.

I catch sight of Simon's smirk in the mirror over the sink. Of course he finds this all very amusing. Git. "Don't get all hot and bothered, Baz. I'm keeping my pants on."

Thank Algernon for that. "Get in the shower, Snow," I growl.

He steps in over the edge of the tub. After a bit of maneuvering, we arrange ourselves so that his wrist (and my hand) are the only parts emerging from the clear plastic shower curtain. It's the first time I've wished we'd bothered to hang the proper opaque one my stepmother sent at the start of last year. The school-issued curtain liner had served us fine until just now.

I attempt to avert my eyes as much as possible, but I still catch accidental glimpses. Okay, deliberate glimpses. Simon manages to wash himself with one hand, sliding the bar of generic soap over his slick body. Clean water trickles down his fit torso in quick little streams, soaking his thin boxers in a matter of seconds. They cling tightly to him in the most indecent fashion. I'm trying (and failing) to convince myself that this isn't the most erotic thing I've ever seen. Aleister Crowley, I'm living a charmed life.

Simon squeezes the shampoo bottle over his head. He puts his face directly under the shower head, closing his eyes against the stream of water. I take the opportunity to stare unabashedly, licking my lips as shampoo suds slip over the rippling muscles of his neck and shoulders. The rivulets of soapy water divide when they hit the moles scattered across his back. My fingers twitch a bit as I imagine myself ghosting one finger across his back, connecting those freckles and moles like constellations. And then repeating the act. With my mouth.

Suddenly the steam in the room begins to feel oppressive. "Hurry up, Snow. Children in Africa are dying of thirst." I snap. My voice comes out rather higher-pitched than I'd intended.

Simon flips me the bird, but then he reaches down and turns off the tap. "Hand me my towel, will you?"

I thrust it at him roughly. I have to avert my gaze again as he quickly towels off. He wraps the towel around his waist and steps out of the tub. Simon meets my eyes with an impish grin and shakes his dripping curls in my face like a dog.

"OI! Stop that, you nutter!" I shove him harder than I mean to. His bare feet slip on the wet bathroom tile, and he stumbles backward toward the tub. I instinctively yank him up with the hand attached to his wrist. He staggers into me, backing me straight into the opposite wall.

"Anathema," he says automatically. His face is far too close to mine. I raise my free hand and place it on his damp chest, pushing him firmly (but gently) away from me. He glances down at his chest, where my hand has lingered perhaps a bit too long. I snatch it away as though I've been burned.

"Get dressed, Snow," I say harshly.

Simon grabs his shirt up from where it's dragging on the sodden bathroom floor. He presses it to his nose. "Merlin, it still stinks!"

He's right. There's a lingering stench of manure in the air, under the clean hospital scent of Simon's cheap shampoo. We decide to wash the filthy article in the sink. It still dangles from Simon's wrist by one sleeve, dripping onto the floor. I cast strongdry as a bone/strong and it instantly dries in a wrinkled, slightly crispy bunch.

Simon shrugs it on. "Better than I could do," he says.

Shirt sorted, we head back into the bedroom. There's still hours left until we usually go to bed, but we decide to change quickly into our pyjamas. I have no choice but to leave my jumper on, unless I want it dangling at my wrist like Simon's shirt. When that's done, there's a long silence. We're both unsure quite what to do before bed. On a normal Sunday evening, I'd be anywhere but our tower room. I'd be practicing my violin somewhere, or faffing around the football pitch with Dev and Niall, or, more likely, hunting in the catacombs.

Lugosi and Carradine, I almost forgot about hunting. My heart sinks to my stomach. I've really, really got to find a way to separate myself from Simon before I need blood again. And I can already tell that's going to be soon. As if there wasn't already enough motivation to get away from him.

Simon clears his throat, breaking the awkward silence. "So. What do you normally do on a Sunday night, Baz?"

I swallow. "Er…nothing much. What do you do?" I'm a little stunned I've never actually thought about how he spends his weekends. He's usually constantly on my mind.

"Well…Penny and I have a standing Doctor Who date," he says.

"Crowley, Snow, you're such a geek! You don't spend your free time snogging Wellbelove in a corner somewhere, like any normal teenager with a girlfriend?" I don't know why I'm provoking him.

Simon's face tightens. "No, you pervert."

"Well, d'you want to go down and watch Doctor Who with Penny, then?" I offer.

"No," says Simon. "You'd ruin the fun."

"I would not."

"You've never seen Doctor Who. You'd get bored—and you'd think it was stupid and you'd make snarky comments the whole time."

I consider this. "True," I concede.

"See?" Simon huffs. "This is the worst." I can feel the tendon in his wrist moving as he clenches and unclenches his fist.

"We could sneak into the library, try and do some research on spellbreaking before tomorrow," I suggest.

Simon shakes his head. "The mage put up some nasty wards around the library a while ago. He caught me trying to research the white hares in the middle of the night once too often."

"You manage to make everything at least six times more difficult."

We toss around a couple more ideas, and eventually settle on just studying separately until bedtime. We arrange our desk chairs so they sit closer together than usual, accommodating our joined arms in the middle without too much stretching. The time passes quicker than I'd guessed, and soon, Simon begins yawning hugely.

"So," he says through a yawn, "Whose bed do we sleep in tonight?"


	3. Chapter 3

**TYRANNUSAURUS BASILTON GRIMM-PITCH**

"I'm not sharing a bed with you," I say flatly.

The number of times I must have fantasized about sharing a bed with Simon Snow…well, it's embarrassing, really. But I never imagined it would be quite under these circumstances. And I certainly never thought it would be his idea. He hates me, for Crowley's sake. _"Whose bed_ ," is he being serious? Imagine what a disaster that would be. His solid heat mere inches from me in the narrow bed, his heady scent filling my nostrils, him inevitably unconsciously moving closer in the night, pressing up against my body.

Simon scowls, blissfully unaware of the dangerous direction my thoughts have taken. "Well what do you suggest, then?

I gesture grandly at the cold stone floor beside my bed.

He frowns. "I'm not kipping on the floor, that's just cruel!"

"Grab a cushion, then. I'm not giving up my bed."

He glares. His entire face gets into the expression, eyebrows lowering, lips narrowing, forehead wrinkling, blue eyes darkening dramatically. It's a look he reserves especially for me. (I pretend I'm not weirdly thrilled whenever he makes that face.)

"Don't look at me like that. You're the one who got us into this mess."

"And why should that mean I get the floor? We could both fit in one of the beds. I don't take up much space."

I raise one eyebrow at him. I happen to know that he's a chaotic sleeper, changing positions at least once an hour throughout the night. He usually ends up sprawled like a starfish with his covers twisted around his legs by morning.

"Not a chance, Snow. You sleep on the floor, end of story."

"Absolutely not!"

We're at an impasse, once again. I wish I could just rip my hand away from him and be done with this mess. He's too close, all the time, breathing my air, taking up far too much of the room with his overwhelming emexistence/em and his crackling, smoky magic always hovering right at his edges. It's like standing too close to a bonfire. And the worst part of this stupid sticking spell is I can't escape the burning when it all gets to be too much. It's bad enough when he's in his own bed, safely across the room from me. But tonight is going to be a special kind of torture.

Simon looks at the space between our two beds. "We could flip a coin," he suggests.

I grin wickedly. "Best idea you've had all day." I retrieve a coin from my desk drawer. "Heads I get the bed, tails you get the floor." I flip the coin high in the air before he gets a chance to work out exactly what I've said. I slap it on the back of my clenched hand. "Heads. Grab a cushion, Snow."

"Hey! Not fair," Simon complains.

"It's perfectly fair. You just walked right into that one. Even Mordelia knows that trick."

"You're awful."

"I know."

Simon rolls his eyes. "Fine. Help me get the mattress off my bed. We're putting that on the floor."

I look dubiously at the space between our beds. Our room is bigger than most at Watford, but it's not huge by any means. With his mattress on the floor, we'll have maybe two feet of floor space. But it would be cruel to make him sleep on the hard stone. "Fine. I don't see another solution," I admit.

Like everything we do now, our task is made infinitely more difficult by the fact that we only have three usable hands between us. Clumsily, we manage to heave Simon's mattress off his bed. As it topples haphazardly onto the floor, I hear a crinkle of plastic wrappers. It's Simon's secret hoard of sweets, tucked so far under the mattress that I hadn't found it last time I'd done a cursory search. (I raid his stash often.) (Mostly because it makes him furious.) (But also I just really love chocolate.)

Simon's face lights up. "Mint Aeros! I forgot I hid them under here weeks ago!"

I snatch the three candy bars up before he gets a chance.

"Oi!" He protests. I've already unwrapped a bar and taken a huge bite.

"You snooze, you lose!" I say thickly, chocolate coating my teeth.

He lunges at me, reaching for the other two chocolate bars. I hold them high above his head, using my extra two inches of height to my full advantage. Simon's eyes flash threateningly. He tries to jump for it, but I yank his wrist down with my attached hand. The momentum makes us stumble. I laugh, holding the sweets out of reach.

"Baz—Give me—my chocolate!" He claws at my arm.

"Anathema!" I warn, sneering.

He tackles me to the ground. My breath leaves me in a whoosh as I land hard—directly onto Simon's mattress. Suddenly, I find myself pinned under Simon's considerable weight. I'm too stunned to move. My heart stutters in my chest as he pins my arms to the mattress. Merlin, I'm glad he can't read minds. Years of lustful fantasies are rising to the forefront of my brain as Simon shifts his weight on top of me, lunging for the chocolate bars. He snatches them from my grasp, which has gone unexpectedly weak.

"Ha! I win," he crows. He sits upright, waving the sweets triumphantly. I hold my breath. He's practically straddling my hips. _Oh, Simon._

Before the situation can become too incriminating, I roll over, flipping him under me in one swift motion. I grab the chocolate away from him again.

"Mine," Simon growls. (He's too sexy for his own good.)

We quickly descend into a wrestling match. Ordinarily, my superior vampire strength would be enough to overpower Simon in under a minute. But right now, the stress and adrenaline is getting to me in weird ways. This situation is really just too ridiculous. Soon, I'm laughing a bit hysterically as Simon wrenches the candy out of my hand. I surrender it to him, clutching my stomach as I'm overtaken by a fit of uncontrollable, slightly insane-sounding giggles.

Simon looks at me oddly.

"Sorry," I gasp. "Just— look at us! Of all people to get stuck like this—it had to be—the two—the two worst enemies in the school!" An involuntary snort escapes me and I descend once more into peals of laughter.

"We are just about the worst people for this to happen to," Simon agrees. Apparently, my hysteria is catching, because a slightly unhinged laugh bubbles up from him before he can stop it.

We collapse side by side on the mattress. Just as one of us starts to calm, the other lets out another burst of giggles, sending us both into hysterics. In a brief quiet moment, Simon raises our joined hands and lets them thump heavily into the mattress. Somehow we both find this hilarious. We are caught in gale after gale of helpless laughter.

Gradually, we begin to run out of steam. The laughter has been a much needed escape valve for the extreme tension of our circumstances. For a moment, we lay silently beside each other, slowly catching our breath. Simon unwraps the candy bars, still clenched in his fist. By now, the aerated chocolate is slightly crushed and a little melty inside its wrapper. He eats it anyway. But as we quiet down, the gravity of the situation begins to creep back into the room.

Snow breaks the silence. "What are we going to do, Baz? I think we literally might kill each other if we're stuck together much longer."

"And be forced to drag a corpse around by the wrist for the rest of forever? No thanks," I say dryly.

He gives a small snort of laughter. My heart soars a tiny bit, but then his face collapses back into seriousness. "But for real, though. We can't live like this. I know you're always plotting to kill me just on ordinary days. But this…this just makes it a million times worse."

"I'm not plotting to kill you, Snow. Possibly maim or torture you. Definitely make your life miserable. But not outright murder. At least not…while we're still roommates."

Snow nods, like he's known this all along.

I've thought about killing him, in the future. After we're done at Watford. Fiona wants me to, I know. She says we don't need a Chosen One, that getting rid of Simon would really give us an advantage over the Mage. Magickal Politics aside, though, I actually do want to kill him, sometimes. Frighteningly often, actually. It would be too easy. (My tongue glosses over my fangs inside my mouth.) I'd kiss him, just once, just to know what it felt like. And then I'd drain him dry, like the monster I am.

Or maybe I just want Snow to kill me. (Even if I'm technically already dead.) Just let him get it over with, end my sad existence already. It should have been over long ago, that day in the Nursery. Even my mom would have wanted it that way. She would have despised…what I am today.

"People expect it, you know," Snow says, dragging me out of my darkening thoughts.

"That I'll kill you?"

"That one of us will kill the other. In the end. 'emAnd one will come to end him, and one will bring his fall,/em' Don't you think that sounds like…you're destined to end me, or something? Unless I turn things around and end you first?"

Of course, I forgot. The world revolves around Simon Snow and his misunderstood teenage protagonism. I scoff. "You really are full of yourself, Snow. Just assuming that the Great Prophecy means you and me. Maybe you're not the Chosen One, ever consider that? Surely the Universe would choose a better magician."

Simon's face tightens angrily. "The Mage thinks it's me."

"Oh, yes, the all-knowing Mage. May we never cast doubt on a word he says, for he is Supreme." I roll my eyes.

"Shut up. It's not just him. Penny thinks it's me, too. And her parents."

"Oh well, if Bunce says so, it must be true. You must be the Chosen One. Destined to rid the world of all evil. Fated to be the one to kill me."

"The Mage has basically told me as much. He says the Pitches are going to destroy the World of Mages. So we need to—I need to—end the family line. With you." (The family line ends with me, regardless. But how could Snow know that?)

"Maybe he's right," Simon continues. "The Pitches and the Old families have always hated what the Mage is trying to do to our world. And it doesn't help your case that you're a…" He cuts himself off abruptly.

"I'm a what, Snow?" I glare at him venomously.

"You're a v-very evil git," he says, shrinking under my menacing look.

"And don't you forget it, Snow," I sneer.

"Well, all that aside," says Simon quickly, "I'm not about to try and kill you… Not while we're…" he lifts his arm an inch off the mattress and scowls.

"Right. Well. That's settled then. No impending homicides for the time being. What a relief." It's a tenuous cease-fire, and I can still feel the tension between us pulsing in the room. It may actually be a struggle not to strangle him in his sleep tonight.

I sit up abruptly. "Time for bed."

"Yes. Good. Bed," Simon agrees. We don't say another word.

We stand up and finish arranging his mattress so it sits on the floor right beside my bed. We get ready for bed silently, communicating only with the occasional shove or tug on the arm as we compete for space at the bathroom sink. It's bloody inconvenient, this spell. We're constantly tripping each other or trying to move in opposite directions. I can't wait til this whole mess is over. Wordlessly, we arrange ourselves on our respective beds. My arm is dangling off the side of mine, and below me, Snow's arm is propped on a pillow at a more comfortable level. We both toss and turn a bit, trying to find a position that's not terribly uncomfortable. I can already tell this is going to be an excruciating night.

Soon, Snow fills the room with his familiar snuffling snores. I've always envied his ability to fall asleep instantly, no matter the circumstances. Growing up in care must do that to a person. Merlin, Simon must have had a miserable childhood. I'd learned a bit about it over the years, and it's all terribly tragic. I don't think he's even kept count of the foster homes he's been in. He must have had to sleep through all sorts of crazy stuff.

I, on the other hand, usually take hours to doze off on a good night. Right now, I'm wide awake, swirling thoughts refusing to shut up. I can feel Simon's hot pulse under my thumb, steadily beating in his wrist. Crowley, he's so alive. So warm, so spirited, just bursting with life. In the moonlight, my cold, pale hand looks almost blue against his golden freckled skin.

Simon shifts in his sleep, pulling his arm closer to his body. I'm dragged right to the edge of my mattress, closer to his intoxicating warmth and heady scent. This is so dangerous. I don't try to pull away. He lets out an incoherent mumble and turns his head so he's facing me. Aleister, he's gorgeous when he sleeps. I've stared at him plenty of times in the night. But never this close up. It takes my breath away. I can count the moles on his face. I've done it before. But now I can see more of them—smaller and fainter, two at his temple, three on his chin, one right at the corner of his mouth. He puffs out a heavy breath, lips parting slightly to reveal white, even teeth. _(Crowley, Basilton, stop thinking about his lips.)_ I could lean down and kiss him, just there, on the faint mole to the left of his mouth. He wouldn't wake. He'd never even know it happened. I move closer, drawn to him like a magnet. (This is a very, very bad idea.) His face is inches away.

Simon grunts loudly, raising himself up off the pillow in his sleep. I nearly have a heart attack. He shifts the pillow under his head, mumbling incoherently. As he lays back down, the silver cross around his neck dangles closer and brushes against the back of my hand. I flinch back from the sharp burning. Crowley, what was I thinking? I can't let myself be tempted like this again. Nothing can ever happen between us. Even if Snow wasn't completely straight…even if he didn't loathe the very ground I walk on…he doesn't deserve a monster like me. I turn my head miserably toward the wall and attempt to fall asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

SIMON SOUR CHERRY SCONE SALISBURY

It's Monday morning, and Baz is in a sinister mood. We both woke up at the arsecrack of dawn because it was so damn uncomfortable sleeping while stuck together. It took me a good five minutes to shake the pins and needles from my hand, which went dead sometime in the night from its odd propped position and Baz's tight grip.

When I complained, he just snapped, "Shut up and quit being a child about it. This is all your fault anyway so quit whinging."

The arrogant prick.

It's hell trying to get ready simultaneously. I think Baz almost rips my arm out of its socket like five times as we're getting dressed. He's been yanking me around all morning and I've had it up to here with his foul mood. It'll be a miracle if we can get through the day like this.

It's a good thing he can't push me down the stairs while we're still attached. I know he's just itching to do something like that, and it just kills him that he can't do anything drastic. But even though he can't physically hurt me too badly, he's making up for it by being downright insufferable. I can just tell he's plotting some form of sick revenge.

Baz insists we go down to the Infirmary first thing, even before breakfast. I try to tell him it's pointless, that even after seven years at Watford the Infirmary staff has no idea how to sort out my magic. But he's bloody obstinate, so we go down anyway. I drag my feet the whole way.

As I suspected, Nurse Walsh turns us away almost immediately, after attempting a halfhearted as you were and the infirmary standard, get well soon.

"I'm sorry, boys. I'm afraid this is beyond my abilities. But not to worry. Mr. Snow's magic almost always wears off on its own within the month," she says reassuringly.

(I am not at all reassured.)

She also sends us with an excuse note explaining our situation to our professors. Turns out we're still expected to go to class in our condition—I was hoping we'd get out of that, at least. But clearly they don't see a problem with it, especially as Baz and I have the same class load this term.

Our first lesson of the day is Greek with the Minotaur, and we're nearly late. We took so long at the infirmary that we missed most of breakfast, so all I'd managed to grab was a heel of toast and a couple of shriveled kippers. Baz got nothing but a large coffee, to which he added like five sugars. Disgusting.

During Greek, I attempt to turn all my focus to Professor Minos. We're conjugating verbs, again. Baz isn't even bothering to take notes. I can feel him fidgeting in his seat beside me. It's bloody distracting. It's so weird, having him so close to me. He usually sits on the other side of the classroom with Niall, and Penelope sits up front with me. For obvious reasons, they've had to switch places, and Penny keeps shooting amused stare at us from across the room.

I scowl at her.

There's nothing funny about this situation.

Having Baz constantly attached to me…it's literally the worst thing that's ever happened to me. Including last year's Chimera attack. I can deal with Chimeras and dragons and werewolves. Even the Humdrum, so far. Problems like that are just temporary. I just whip out my sword or blast them with a dose of Magic and that's it, problem solved. But this…it's like having a poison ivy rash or an STD that just won't go away.

It seems like Baz is going out of his way to get on my last nerve. He feels the need to make snippy little comments about everything I do—my posture, my handwriting as I take notes in class, the way I apparently squint stupidly when I read. By lunchtime, after we've sat through three lessons, I'm absolutely fuming. I'm having a hard time suppressing my magic, crackling violently just under the surface.

Baz has noticed. He confronts me about it on the Great Lawn on the way to our room after tea.

"Can't you get yourself under control? Your magic is driving me mad!"

"I am in control," I growl.

"It's like sitting next to an electric fence. I feel like you're going to burn my eyebrows off."

I clench my fist and take a deep breath. I feel my magic surge dangerously.

"I hate this just as much as you do. Probably more," I say.

"Not possible." Baz's shoulders are tense, his expression foul. He's just oozing nervous energy.

"How d'you think I feel, with you jerking me around by the arm all the time?" I say. "It's like you're about to drag me down to the catacombs and—"

Out of nowhere, Baz punches me in the jaw.

I reel back, stunned. He hasn't tried something like that since pushing me down the stairs in third year. I guess this is really getting to him. Hell, it's getting to me too.

I swing a powerful punch right back at him, but he's expecting it and blocks me. So I aim a vicious kick at his shin. I'm having flashbacks of second year, where public fights between us were a regular occurrence. It almost make me laugh. I duck as Baz flings another punch at my head. A crowd begins to gather on the Great Lawn as our fight escalates. I'm sure we look ridiculous, throwing one-handed punches and yanking each other off balance by the arm.

By the time a teacher strides up to break up the fight, my nose is bleeding and Baz is wrenching my arm behind my back. Crowley, he's strong. Ruthless. Powerful. And he does it all without breaking a sweat. I hate him so much it's frightening.

The teachers don't know what to do about us. They can't separate us, for obvious reasons. In the end, we're given a stern talking to, detention, and a warning that another fight would get us both expelled. We storm back up to Mummer's house in silence. I'm holding a rag over my nose, which is still bleeding profusely.

When we get to our room, Baz practically shoves me into my desk chair. "Lean forward and pinch your nose," he says quietly.

I look at him narrowly. "Don't tell me what to do."

"Just…trust me. I used to get nosebleeds a lot as a kid. Tip your head forward, Snow."

I do, making sure to still keep my eyes on Baz. I have a hard time imagining him getting a nosebleed. I don't think he has enough blood in him, he's so pale. But he must have, once. As a kid, before he got turned. Well before I ever knew him. The idea shakes me a bit. I've never really considered that Baz wasn't always a vampire. It's just who he is. (At least, I assume. He's never admitted it.) But of course vampires aren't born, they're made. It makes me a little sick, thinking of how it must have been for Baz when he was turned. He was just a little kid, for snakes' sake. What kind of monster would bite a child?

After a bit, the bleeding in my nose subsides and I sit upright. There's blood all over my face. I try to wipe it off with my rag.

Baz steps closer to me. Without warning, he grabs my chin and tilts my head up.

I swat his hand away, startled. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Checking to see if your nose is broken."

"What are you, a nurse?"

"Dev's nose got broken in football once. It swelled like a balloon. I know what a broken nose looks like."

"Oh," I say. "Go on then."

**"Hold still."

He takes hold of my face again, gripping me right where he'd punched me in the jaw.

I let out a dramatic roar of pain. "That hurts!"

"If you just held still, it wouldn't hurt as much!"

"If you hadn't socked me in the face, this wouldn't have happened!"

"If you hadn't stuck us together in the first place, I wouldn't have had to!"

I pause. He's right. The bastard. "Well, you shouldn't have left your sculpture in my way," I retort rather lamely.

"Well you should learn to control your magic!" Baz erupts. **

I slump, defeated.

Baz sighs. He reaches into his football bag for an icepack. Spelling it cold, he hands it to me. "Hold this to your face. I don't think your nose is broken, just bruised."

I take the icepack from him warily. He's being weirdly…nice. It makes me nervous. "Thanks," I mutter.

After a minute, Baz speaks up again. "Truce?"

I hesitate. "Why would I make a truce with you?"

"Just…it might be nice to stop working against each other constantly. It's driving me insane, being stuck to you. I just thought…an official truce might help."

I nod slowly. "Just until we get this sorted."

"Yeah. No more fighting, no more getting in each other's way. We've got to start communicating, work together a bit. No more aggression."

I raise an eyebrow at him.

"No more acts of aggression," he amends.

It's a good idea, I have to admit. But I have a hard time trusting that Baz will keep his end of the truce. "Swear it with magic," I suggest.

Baz rolls his eyes, but pulls out his wand anyway. "An Englishman's word is his bond!"

I feel a sharp heat as his magic swirls around our joined hands. It's intense, but not completely unpleasant. It's like pressing a hot spoon to the back of my hand. "Good," I say, "glad we've settled that."

"Your face is a mess, Snow."

I can feel the dried blood starting to cake on my upper lip. My shirt is also spattered with blood, which is a real pain, as we've already discovered we can't actually change our shirts while attached by the arms. I cast out, out, damn spot and the blood disappears from my clothes and face. My shirt's still a wrinkled mess from when we washed it last night, though. We're going to have to come up with some kind of solution for that. Can't keep wearing the same shirt for weeks. (Merlin, I hope it's not weeks. Truce or not, we really, really can't live like this for much longer.)

Baz and I stay in our room for the rest of the hour before afternoon classes start. He seems to have no interest in talking, despite my attempts to start a conversation. Of course, just because we're on a truce, I guess it doesn't mean we have to be friends or anything. But if I'm going to be spending all my time with Baz, I'd rather not be bored out of my mind on top of everything.

We get through the rest of the afternoon mostly by ignoring each other as much as possible. We don't really talk except to negotiate which way we're going next. But it's pretty much impossible not to be aware of him at all times. We're practically breathing the same air.

As the day progresses, Baz grows even more withdrawn and irritable. He's extremely pale, and I think his grip on my wrist is growing colder. It worries me.

"Are you okay?" I ask after Magic Words class. He'd stopped paying attention halfway through the lesson and laid his head down on the desk, looking slightly woozy.

"Fine, Snow. Mind your own business."

He refuses to even look in my direction, and I get the feeling that he's in actual pain. He keeps rubbing his stomach and running his tongue along his teeth nervously. Crowley, how long has it been since he…well, drank anything? Besides sugary coffee, I mean?

"You don't look like you're okay," I press.

Baz huffs out a long breath through his nose.

"Stop pestering. I told you, I'm fine."

"You're pale as a ghost. When's the last time you…ah, ate anything?"

"At lunch. You were there, Snow. Eating everything in your path like a wild animal. It was disgusting. Your table manners are atrocious."

"Don't change the subject," I say. "You didn't eat enough to feed a small child."

"And why should that concern you, you nosy wanker? You're not my mother."

I don't know why it concerns me so much. Baz's eating habits shouldn't be any of my business. But it is worrying, how pale he's gotten recently. Maybe I'm so concerned because my life is potentially in danger. Who knows how long a vampire can go without drinking blood? I know Baz went down to the catacombs every night in our fifth year. He was hunting rats, I know it. I found a pile of drained carcasses near the entrance one night. He's got to be thirsty by now, for sure. But don't vampires need food, too?

"I just think…you're in a terrible mood, Baz. Food might cheer you up a bit."

"Not everyone is as obsessed with food as you."

"But everyone needs to eat," I say.

"Believe it or not, I'm not terribly hungry."

I run through a list in my head. (Is it weird that I have a list of all the food Baz has consumed in the past day? I don't know why. I just do.) I know for a fact he ate like three bites at dinner last night, plus my Mint Aero bar. Add that to the three disgusting coffees and a tiny half sandwich he had today at teatime, and it's barely enough to constitute a single meal. But come to think of it, I've hardly ever seen Baz eat. I know he does, on occasion. I've seen the salt and vinegar crisp crumbs on the floor in our room. But he is awfully skinny. I saw how far his hipbones jutted when we were dressing this morning.

"You seriously don't look well," I persist.

"Oh, piss off."

I know he doesn't want to confess that he needs blood. That would mean actually admitting to me that he's a vampire. There's no going back from that. But I'm done with this stupid game. It's time for him to suck it up (so to speak) and just finally admit what he is.

"Come on, Baz. Just say it," I goad.

"I've got to—Crowley Snow, I've got to hunt!" he bursts out.

Finally! "I knew it," I say triumphantly.

Baz lowers his eyebrows. "Congratulations, Snow. You're a regular Sherlock Holmes. You've lived with a vampire for seven years, and you've only just now found him out."

"Please. I've known since fifth year. Can I see your fangs?"

"No!"

"Come on, just one peek?" I lean in towards his mouth, trying to peer inside.

"You're the most aggravating—"

I reach out suddenly and put my thumb on his upper lip, stretching it up to see his gums. Baz jerks his head back. I glimpse a tiny hole where his fangs must pop out before he slaps my hand away.

"Oh go on, Basil. Just let me see them!" I wheedle.

Baz flashes me a feral grimace, fangs suddenly descending. It changes his whole face—makes his lip fuller, fills out his cheeks a bit.

"Cool," I whisper.

"You're disturbed, Snow. You should be terrified right now." His words are slightly garbled, like he's wearing a retainer.

I can't help but laugh a little. "Your fangs look awesome. How come I've never seen them before?"

"It's not something I advertise, is it?" Baz is exasperated. "The Coven would have me beheaded, pronto, no questions asked."

"Right. Good job they've never suspected you."

"Yeah," Baz says, "Good job." His fangs have retracted back into his gums. (Can he control that? Wicked.)

"So, this means you have to drink blood like, every night, right?"

"More or less."

"Wicked. Let's go hunting tonight, then. Where do you usually go? The nearest village? Or, y'know, farther afield so no one gets suspicious? Maybe the old folks home? No one would miss a pensioner or two." I can't resist winding him up a bit. I know he just hunts small rodents down in the Catacombs, and sometimes in the Wavering Wood.

He stares at me in horror. "Snow! You think I hunt humans? What the hell do you think I am, some sort of barbarian?"

"Well, aren't you?" I say innocently. "I thought all vampires drank hu—"

He cuts me off sharply. "I drink rats, mostly. The occasional squirrel, a deer if I can find one."

I smirk. "I know. I followed you all of fifth year, remember?"

Baz scowls, apparently reliving terrible memories. "Couldn't get you off my tail for the life of me. Bloody annoying little blighter, you were."

(Yeah, I definitely was.)

"So what's it going to be tonight," I say, "the Wood or the Catacombs?"

"The catacombs, I think. After dinner."

"Wonderful. It's a date," I say brightly.

"You have the weirdest idea of what a date is, Snow."

I grin widely. I get to watch an actual vampire in action. (That shouldn't be so exciting.) (I don't care. It sounds cool.) This is going to be fun.


	5. Chapter 5

Snow breathes louder than anyone else I know. It's like he's trying to be as obnoxious as possible. Dinner is over and we've been in the catacombs for half an hour. If I were alone, I'd have caught and drained at least three rats by now. I'm practically shaking. A combination of exhaustion, cold, hunger, being close to Simon all day, and thirst. Stoker and Shelley, the thirst. My head is throbbing. I press my fingers into my temple. My fangs are out, gleaming in the torchlight, filling my mouth without my consent. I've given up trying to retract them. What would be the point?

My patience with Snow has never been so thin. He's scaring all the rats away just by existing. Not that I could sniff any out, anyway, with the scent of Snow's intoxicating human blood coating the inside of my nose. The rats have never been safer.

Simon stumbles on a loose bit of rock, sending it skittering into a corner. I explode.

"Crowley, Snow! Could you make any more noise? I don't think the rats in the next village heard you."

"I thought I was being quiet!"

"Well you're not. You've scared away every rat within a five mile radius."

"I'm not saying anything!"

"You're breathing like a horse. And stomping."

"I don't stomp!"

"Yes you do. Oaf."

"Well I'm sorry for existing. Shall I evaporate?"

"Please."

I could end it all right now. End him. His pulse is pounding hard, fast, strong in his wrist. Beating steadily under my thumb, just under the surface of his freckled skin. I can hear it. Smell it. His scent is drowning out everything I'm trying to think.

Snow rolls his eyes. "Don't you have rat traps or something? Seems like that would be easier."

"Not since first year. The rats got too smart for that."

"So you just…catch them with your bare hands?"

"Yes. They're not terribly fast. It's not that hard. When I have two hands." I squeeze his wrist in a death grip for emphasis.

Snow grimaces. "Look, I'm sorry, okay? I thought we were on a truce."

I glare at him.

"Don't you know any hunting spells?" Simon asks, exasperated.

"None for rats. Just banishing spells. No one wants to call vermin directly to them."

"Well that's just inconvenient."

"No one invents spells for the convenience of vampires. I'm pretty much on my own here."

"Let's go out to the Wood," Simon suggests. "Surely there are spells for creatures out there."

There are. I know a couple for birds, and one for deer. But they're enormously draining and I've only ever gotten them to work at close range. But I need to get out of here desperately. I definitely overestimated my tolerance for being in narrow, airless corridors with Simon Snow. I know if we stay down here much longer, Simon is done for.

It would be too easy. I can't stop picturing myself losing all control. Pouncing. Pinning him to the wall. Tilting his head back and pressing my lips to his jugular. Sinking my teeth into his pulse point. Hot liquid blooming into my mouth, sliding easily down my aching throat. Simon's eyes would widen, and then he'd go weak under me, eyes rolling back in his head, tawny golden face going corpse white as I drained the life out of him. He'd collapse in my arms, pale and limp and ice cold. I'd suck the last drops from his neck and hug him to my chest. Finally right where I want him. And then I would set myself on fire. Burn myself at the stake, tied to the bloodless corpse of Simon Snow.

Too easy.

"Fine. We'll go to the Wood." My voice is hoarse, parched. "Keep up, Snow."

We set off at a sprint, taking the catacomb passageways at ridiculous speed. Simon isn't a bad runner, I'll give him that. He's hardly even breaking a sweat. But his pulse is pounding faster in his wrist, growing hotter under my thumb. Crowley, I really might bite him if we don't get out there soon.

As soon as we reach the top of the staircase and burst into the relatively fresh air of the White Chapel, Simon's scent dissipates around us. I take in a gulp of open air, relieved when I can smell incense and wood floors on top of Simon's blood. We slow down instinctively. Can't easily shake years of teachers telling us not to run inside the chapel. The sun is low in the sky, streaming into the stained glass windows and igniting the room with dusty rainbow shafts of light. A beam of sunlight catches in Simon's hair, making him glow from behind like he has a halo. Merlin, he's too perfect. I swallow painfully. He shifts, and the sunlight blazes directly into my eyes.

"The Mage raises the drawbridge at dusk. We have to hurry," I say.

"We'll make it back," says Simon. He shoves the chapel doors open with his shoulder, and we take off running again.

When we get sufficiently deep into the Wavering Wood that no one at Watford could possibly see what I'm doing, I stop abruptly. Simon stumbles as his arm is yanked back. He stands still, hands on his knees, and pants for a minute.

"Quiet, Snow."

He holds up one finger at me. emWait./em In just a few moments, his breathing slows and he raises his head, grinning up at me stupidly.

"So do I get to watch you hunt now?" His voice is eager, like a kid anticipating presents.

"You're disturbed, Snow. It's really not that exciting." I sneer at him. I can feel my fangs popping out, rather ruining the effect. He's staring at my mouth, eyes wide, lips parted. Clearly mesmerized.

"Oh, shut your mouth, Snow. You'll catch flies."

He grins at me again. Idiot. "So do you know any good hunting spells?"

I sigh and take my wand from my cloak pocket. I point it at the trees halfheartedly. strong"Doe, a deer,"/strong I cast, hoping the already scarce deer haven't been scared off by Simon's loud footsteps.

Simon pulls out his wand, too, and shouts the same spell before I can stop him. I wince, knowing he's never cast it before. New spells and Simon Snow shouldn't mix.

Simon catches my expression and rolls his eyes. "It's worth a try," he says. "What could go wrong?"

I curl my lip at him, but decide to let it go. I turn again and point my wand lower. I cast strongfox in the hole/strong and strongCome out, come out, wherever you are./strong I point my wand at the sky and cast a couple bird calls.

"Isn't that a little overboard?" Simon asks.

"Doesn't hurt to cast the net wide," I say. "Never know what's nearby."

Simon shrugs and casts the same spells into the air around us.

"Now what?" he says when he's finished.

"Now we wait." I walk over to the largest tree in the area and sit, my back leaning against the rough bark. Simon sits beside me after a moment.

I glance up, noticing the sun sinking dangerously low, past the tree line. I hope this doesn't take long. I'll be forced to drink one of Ebb's goats, or worse, a merwolf. I close my eyes and lean my head against the tree. Usually, if there are any animals near, my spells take about fifteen minutes to take effect.

No more than twenty seconds later, I hear a rustle in the bushes to my left. My eyes snap open. It's a fox, staring at me from between the leaves. A slow smile spreads across my face. That was fast. I move to stand, movements slow and careful, trying not to spook the animal.

"Baz," Simon whispers. He's staring at the boulder to our right, pointing at a stag that's just stepping out from behind it.

Just then, we hear a flutter in the leaves above us. A family of crows has landed in the branches of the nearby oak tree. And on the ground, a line of quail are bobbing across the clearing, calm as anything.

Merlin and Morgana, Simon's magic is powerful.

"Are you a Disney princess, Snow?" I say in an undertone. "I've never seen this many woodland creatures at once." As if to prove my point, three fat rabbits hop out from behind a tree.

"It's an all you can eat buffet!" Simon whispers, chuckling.

I laugh. It is, isn't it? Best meal I've had in months.

I cast a mild **stand your ground** so the animals won't scatter when I go to catch them. I stand, but hesitate. It's weird, having Simon here. Watching me. Knowing what I am.

"What are you waiting for?" he says. "Take your pick."

I nod, looking around at the assortment of animals. "Promise me you won't pass out when I snap the bunnies' necks."

Simon rolls his eyes. "I'm not a vegetarian. I know how this works."

I shake my head once, trying to forget the weirdness of the situation. Might as well take advantage of these animals while they're here. Even if Simon is here too.

"Just try to stay out of my way, Snow."

He nods. "Get on with it."

It's a bit awkward, catching and killing creatures one-handed. I can only go for the smaller ones. Easier to snap their necks. Less messy to eat. In the end, I drain the fox, the largest rabbit, and three of the quail. It's rather decadent. I never gorge myself like this. But it's not often that such a range of creatures is right in front of me like this. I find myself appreciating the subtly different flavors of the animals' blood. The fox is rangy, sharp, almost metallic. The rabbit is fatty and gamy. I decide the quail is my favorite. Pleasantly salty, with a hint of fried chicken. (Don't judge. Vampires have discerning taste buds, too.)

When I can feel the blood sloshing pleasantly around in my stomach, I stand, wiping the back of my hand across my mouth. I let the other animals go with a strongfly away home./strong

After a minute, I glance over at Snow. I expect him to look nauseated or horrified by what he's just seen. But he doesn't. He just flashes me his stupid grin and says, "That was awesome. They never saw it coming. You're a pro at this, Baz."

"And you're an idiot."

We walk back up to the castle, Snow narrating my hunting play by play. "And when you went for that rabbit! I was sure it was going to hop away, or maybe bite your hand, but you just grabbed its neck and it went limp, like a Vulcan nerve pinch."

"Shut up, Snow," I say. I pretend I'm not enjoying his weird obsession with my vampire talents. He is so strange.

It takes us far longer to walk back to Watford than I'd anticipated. I guess we went farther into the Wood than I realized. As we emerge from the thick tree border, I notice that it's already gone quite dark outside. I glance toward the moat, hoping the Mage hasn't pulled up the drawbridge just yet. Just then, I hear a creak of ropes and pulleys, and a faint splash as some gravel shifts into the moat.

"Oh, no," I groan. I tug Simon's arm and sprint toward the drawbridge. But it's already too late. The heavy drawbridge is practically upright by the time we reach the edge of the moat.

Simon swears loudly. "Are we stuck out here now?"

"Yes," I growl. "No thanks to the Mage. Paranoid git." I'm mentally kicking myself. I knew we wouldn't have enough time to go all the way out to the Wavering Wood. Stupid.

Simon curses again. "We'll freeze out here!"

I frown. He's right. There's a cruel chill in the air, now the sun's gone down. April nights are far from forgiving out here in the countryside. At least we thought to bring our cloaks.

"Come on, Snow. Get away from the moat. We'll be seen." Watford students are absolutely not allowed out of bounds after dark. We're already on thin ice from our fight earlier today. They'll kick us out if we're caught. I resign myself to spending a long, cold night hiding out on the Watford grounds with my sworn enemy.


End file.
